How will flesh and spirit reunite?
Will it be like marshaling the troops?
Will the spirit give a signal and
all the body cells come rushing back?
Or will it be like assembling a jigsaw puzzle,
a slower, more deliberate putting together?
Perhaps it is a purely scientific process:
take sixteen strands of autosomal DNA
and link to 32 strands of mitochondrial . . .
Maybe it is like those toys that grow when you add water:
put the bones in a basin with a quart of grow solution,
leave for 24 hours until body is full-sized, then re-inhabit.
Perchance God will give us brand new bodies
that look like the old ones, minus irritating imperfections.
Or it might be a sacramental ritual of faith and prayer
or a spontaneous springing forth,
like so many crocuses responding to the sun.
Or maybe we will majestically arise in our fully perfect form
as one by one we are called forth from the grave.

It is the night before
what has always been
my favorite holiday–
But tonight no children
go to bed early so Santa
can come.

No one hides behind the sofa
to tackle Santa
or leaves cookies and a note
or makes his brother
promise to wake him up
before sneaking out to the living room.

What is the wonder
of Christmas
if we all just go to bed,
arise and eat,
open a book
and a box of chocolates?

No more wondering:
Will David like his Legos?
Will Capsela be perfect
for Richard and Michael?
Will Shane ride his scooter
the whole day long?
What will Becky say
when she sees
her Barbie with
the hand-sewn bridal gown?

No more
jumping up every time
the house creaks;
no sleeping on a foam pad
on the living room floor
so I won’t miss
their first glimpses
of Christmas.

What is Christmas now?

Could it be
a much-younger mother,
all alone,
wondering,
as she looks at perfect lips,
flushed baby cheeks,
the dimple in the cleft of his chin,
wondering,
about sorrowful days
yet to be?